


kick him while he's down

by w0lftails (bluebear)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: D/s undertones, Drug Use, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Skov likes pain, and I like semicolons, but it's all consensual i swear, maybe kinda questionable consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 12:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19250908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebear/pseuds/w0lftails
Summary: Proko leers. “Shirt says Skovron but it should probably say Kavinsky.”“Fuck off, like you're one to talk,” Skov mumbles, but the corner of his mouth quirks with amusement. “If you invited me over just to talk shit, I can go smoke my own weed.”





	kick him while he's down

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a pile of self-indulgent babbling as per usual, porn with absolutely no real spine of a plot whatsoever, uhhh. I really don't know what I'm doing here. :')
> 
> Mind the tags, there's some weed and some kinda rough-ish sex and mentions of past interactions that fall into that same category, so if that's not your thing, maybe skip this one!

It's finally Friday, just late enough in the day that the sun is low in the sky, painting everything it can reach with a golden sheen and casting long blue shadows over what it can't. Henrietta is showing signs of early summer - the breeze that shivers in through the open window of Prokopenko's room in the Kavinsky mansion is pleasant and warm, scented floral by the blossoms on trees that loom in the backyard outside. Before the aroma can truly be enjoyed, though, it's cut with the peppery smell of the weed smoke that rises in plumes from Swan's mouth, and he watches as Proko's eyes track the shifting shapes.

Both of them are entertained as each wisp unfurls into a small lime-green skull shape before it disperses, a gimmick courtesy of Kavinsky's dreaming mind; it would be stupid, Swan thinks, if it weren't kind of cool.

“That's real cute,” Proko drawls, lips curling into a languorous smile. He lifts a hand to swipe through the lingering green cloud. “K's always got ideas up his sleeve.”

Swan nods, sparks up his lighter and takes another good hit before offering the generously-packed bowl to Proko, who'd never turn down anything made by Kavinsky. He coughs out his exhale and nudges Proko's knee with his own. The two of them are the tallest of their group, taking up a fair amount of space on the king-sized bed, sitting closer than necessary because of the apparent magnetic pull that's ever-present between all of them, a strong undercurrent in their little pack. Swan sometimes wonders if Kavinsky has them all under some sort of spell, or hex, or curse, depending on who you ask, but he likes the feeling just enough to not care.

“K had some ideas up his sleeve last night, didn't he,” Swan says, and it's not an inquiry; he says it with the surety of someone who's spent too many late long nights alongside the thief in question. The details of the story are what he's fishing for, and he knows Proko has them – he'd been there, along with Skov, gallivanting around Henrietta's fairgrounds while Swan had been helping Jiang edit a world history essay. Or at least that's where Swan assumes they'd gone. He isn't entirely sure. Hence: fishing.

Prokopenko giggles through a thick cloud of smoke and hands the bowl and lighter back over to Swan. “You wish you'd been there, huh? Regretting staying in and being a loser with Jiang?”

“We were being responsible students, fuck off,” Swan corrects, and if he laughs it's only because Proko's is so infectious, not because he thinks Proko is right. “Some of us want an actual future, believe it or not. I just wanna know what you guys did to Skov. I was asleep when he got back last night but he could barely move getting when we were ready for class this morning, he looked destroyed.”

Leaning back, Proko rests his weight on the heels of his hands and hums with interest. “I didn't do anything to Skov. Well, not really. Mostly just helped hold him still. Might've left a bruise or two, but I swear it wasn't on purpose. But Kavinsky wasn't nice; he really fucked Skov up. I'm supposed to make it up to him, on K's behalf. I promised him I would. An apology, I guess. I mean. It's not like Skov didn't have a good time yesterday, but. K told me to treat him gentle today. He's gonna be here any minute, I told him to come over after soccer practice.”

The concept of Kavinsky telling anyone to be gentle with anything sounds fake. The idea of Kavinsky being merciless with Skov, however, doesn't, and although Proko isn't being very thorough in his descriptions, Swan has plenty of other reference points from nights he hadn't stayed in with Jiang. He can practically hear Skov's choked-out whimpers and the wet slap of K's hips hitting Skov's ass, both of them messy with spit and sweat.

“So. Bad enough for K to make you 'apologize' for it? Nice,” Swan says, grinning at Proko. He considers the weed in the bowl, noticing that it doesn't look like it's been burned at all, even though he knows he's been smoking it. _K's always got ideas up his sleeve._ He takes another dragging hit, savors the silky citrusy smoke filling his chest cavity, and gestures for Proko to move closer.

Lucky for Swan, Proko generally lives his life in a state of willingness; he's easy, pliant, and agreeable, and Swan hates to think it but he's pretty sure Kavinsky might've enhanced that aspect of his personality a little in the resurrection. Admittedly, right now, it's working in his favor - he cups Proko's jaw and leans in, blowing the smoke into the other boy's open mouth. Prokopenko leans into Swan's touch and breathes the smoke in like it's better than oxygen. Maybe it is, for him, Swan thinks – a dream thing for a dream boy.

He pulls Proko in and kisses him, working his lips open softly with his tongue. He sure as hell feels like the old Proko. It's a eerie, almost, how right K got it.

Swan licks past Proko's front teeth and laps at the roof of his mouth, sucks at his bottom lip and bites it without much intention. The thing about Swan is that he could kiss forever; it's fun for him, a teasing game. Judging by the way Proko's melting into it, Swan doesn't think he minds playing along.

He indulges in a few more moments of making out before he forces himself to break it off; if he doesn't, no one will. When they part, Proko's stormy grey eyes are heavy-lidded and faraway. He runs his tongue across his own bottom lip, slicking it with spit, and Swan knows he'll be easy to convince.

“I don't care if K told you to be gentle. He's not here. You're gonna listen to me, yeah? Do what I tell you to do.”

Proko raises an eyebrow, gives a small shrug, and then says, “Okay, sure.” He's just faded enough to disobey his king's summons, just charmed enough by Swan's dark tone and deep kisses, and knows just as well as anyone that despite Kavinsky's undisputed position as the alpha, Skov's genuine interests lie with Swan. Doing what Swan says will be doing what Skov wants, anyway; the two of them are basically a singular unit, as far as Proko – and most everyone else who comes into contact with them – is concerned. Jiang refers to them as “ _that_ couple from high school” as though they've already graduated and been together for ten years. Swan hopes they will be, secretly, if they can make it out of Henrietta in one piece.

“Are you talking about me?”

Skov is barely loud enough to be heard, but his sudden arrival still startles both Proko and Swan. Proko curses and Swan jumps, turning just in time to see the blue-haired boy closing the door behind him and kicking his shoes off into the corner of the room. He grimaces as though the movement pains him, and god, it probably does.

_Kavinsky wasn't nice. He really fucked Skov up._

Two pairs of eager eyes follow Skov as he makes his way towards the bed and settles down onto it, laying on his stomach next to where Swan and Proko sit. He's still in his clothes from soccer – a cotton t-shirt version of his Aglionby jersey, black shorts, and knee-high socks. The same attire as every other boy on the team, yet he wears it in a way that looks almost vulgar.

Apparently Proko's thinking the same thing. There's admiration in his voice as he rakes his gaze down Skov's body and says, “Oh, Blakey. Only you could make casual workout clothes look slutty.” He pushes his hand beneath the hem of Skov's shirt and partway up his spine, crumpling the fabric and revealing jagged rows of scratches clawed into pale skin, still pink and angry, scabbing in parts, a roadmap of K's sadistic tendencies. Proko leers. “Jersey says _Skovron_ but it should probably say _Kavinsky_.”

“Fuck off, like you're one to talk,” Skov mumbles, but the corner of his mouth quirks with amusement. “If you invited me over just to talk shit, I can go smoke my own weed.” He rolls onto his back and clumsily maneuvers around until his head is in Proko's lap, and Swan watches as Proko's hand falls to play with his hair. He's always loved witnessing the dynamic between the two; they're best friends before all else, have been for the longest of anyone besides Proko and K, and it's obvious. They function on a similar wavelength – Swan figures it's because Prokopenko is only mostly real and Skov is eternally stoned. Whatever the reason, it works well for them, and there's a familiarity in their motions and interactions that Swan finds enchanting. Their ability to bounce between bro-ing out and making out without a hitch is impressive.

Swan is also starkly aware that Skov still doesn't know this is Proko 2.0, even though it's been over a year since the whole incident. Skov's the only one Kavinsky couldn't bring himself to tell; Swan and Jiang vowed to take it to the grave, and Proko himself wouldn't dare speak of it. If Skov somehow knows it anyway, he hasn't admitted it to anyone, and Swan doubts there's a thing Blake Skovron wouldn't share with him.

Before Swan's thoughts can spiral too far, they're abruptly and thankfully knocked off track by Proko's lilting voice – _helloooo, earth to Swan, wanna hit this before Skov hogs it again?_ – and when he refocuses his eyes, he registers the shimmering glass of a bowl and sleek metal case of a Zippo being held several inches from his face. He accepts the offering even if it's against his better judgement and scoots back on the mattress to sit with his back against the headboard, legs criss-crossed. He makes a remark about getting a good seat before taking in another healthy lungful, which prompts a chuckle from Proko, and Skov purses his lips with suspicion.

“I'm not just here to kick it with you guys?” Skov flops back onto his stomach and peers up at Proko with a glint in his eye that makes a twinge of heat flare in Swan's gut. He doesn't miss the sinuous roll of Skov's hips against the mattress when Proko runs a hand up the back of Skov's thigh and replies:

“Obviously not.”

The shaky sigh that Skov lets out makes the back of Swan's neck prickle. The bedframe creaks as Proko situates himself behind Skov, straddling the backs of his knees and resting his weight there to pin Skov in place. When Proko tugs at the waistband of Skov's shorts, his hips lift with automatic acceptance, and Swan grins. “Kavinsky asked Pro to treat you nice,  _cariño_ ,” he purrs, feasting his eyes on the sight of Proko's silver-ringed fingers kneading Skov's perky butt. A firework of fuschia and indigo mottles the skin stretched over the round of one of his asscheeks, and Swan wonders if those are the bruises Proko owned up to earlier. 

“Good fucking thing,” Skov manages. “Everything hurts.” He flinches when Proko gives the black-and-blue splotch a light spank. Yeah, Swan decides, those are definitely the bruises Prokopenko had been referring to. So much for ' _not on purpose'_ . 

“Yeah, I'm sure that smarts. You really let K go at it last night,” says Proko, smoothing his hand over the abused skin in small circles, the soft sensation surely a welcomed contrast. “Bet it's been a long day for you.” 

“Hah, yeah. Having to play soccer fucking sucked.” Skov arches his back, an attempt to press into Proko's hand.

“Awh, poor baby,” Proko teases. “Come on, you know you love it. I can picture you having to run your laps around the field, lagging behind, all limping and shit. I wonder if everyone else could tell something was up.” His hands are on Skov but his eyes are on Swan, obediently awaiting instruction. 

In his distracted haze, Swan had nearly forgotten he was supposed to be running the show. He locks eyes with Proko and says, “I bet you he's still kinda warmed up, Proko. Open and ready. Bet he was hoping for this all day. Skov's pretty much always in the mood to get fucked.”

Skov's reddening face disappears into the crook of his elbow, and he grinds down against the bed. His ' _shut the fuck up, Swan_ ' comes out muffled, but Swan still catches it, and a spike of sick delight swells in his chest at the thought that he can still effectively humiliate this rowdy tornado of a boy who is usually shameless to a near-detrimental extent. 

“Where is the lie, babe?” Swan lazily gropes at his dick through his joggers, thanking himself for changing out of those god-awful Aglionby uniform slacks before leaving for Kavinsky's. The fabric is thin and soft; feels nice rubbing against his erection. “Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll make Proko stop.”

Proko, who is currently two spit-covered knuckles deep into Skov, huffs out a laugh. “You're fucking relentless, man,” he says, twisting his wrist and hunching in close to Skov. “Am I hurting you, Skov? We can stop. Did you wanna just smoke some more weed, not get a little reward for sacrificing your body to K last night?”

The way he says it makes K sound like some kind of forbidden deity, or the devil. Which, Swan thinks, isn't inaccurate.

“Don't,” Skov warns. Swan watches one of his hands disappear beneath him as Proko uses his free arm to yank him up onto his knees a little.

“Hm? What was that, _perrito_?” Swan knows the nickname will get Skov's attention, and it does; Skov lifts his head just enough to make foggy eye contact with him. His brow furrows in a mix of pain and bliss, a face Swan is very well acquainted with. “You don't want to stop, do you?”

“No,” Skov answers. “Don't. Please, I swear to fucking god.”

“Oh, good,” Swan says. He peers at Prokopenko, whose eyes are hungry, freckled cheeks splotchy and pink. “I was gonna tell Pro that he can fuck you, if he wants. But for a minute there I wasn't sure you were up for it.”

The synchronous groan that Swan gets from the two others is music to his ears. His dick pulses and he finally shows himself enough mercy to address it, cramming a hand down his pants. He gives himself a nice few pumps, more turned on than he realized; the sensation is a relief, tingling warmth through his limbs and thrumming into his skull. He grazes the warm velvety skin with his fingertips, patient, almost taunting. He wants to stay hard without spoiling himself too soon; he has plans, he wants to feel the slick heat inside of Skov for himself before all is said and done. “Go on, then, Prokopenko. Don't be shy.” 

With hesitancy, Proko pulls his fingers out of Skov, who whines at the loss. “I can tell it's gonna be... uncomfortable,” Proko says sympathetically, and Swan's not sure who he's directing the comment at, but Skov takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

“He can handle it,” Swan promises, “he likes when it aches a little. I know K told you to be gentle, but you're listening to me, remember?”

The string of curses Skov breathes out makes Swan's hips twitch, and Prokopenko shimmies out of his jeans until they're bunched around his knees, just far enough to do the trick. Swan can make out the outline of his dick in his underwear before he pulls it out, nudging it between the crease of Skov's asscheeks. It's a nice dick, Swan's always thought, long without being too much, fairly thick, proportionate with Proko's wiry frame. It looks especially great snuggled against the cleft of Skov's ass.

Swan catalogues every motion as Proko coats himself in lube from a bottle he finds conveniently stowed somewhere in the folds of his bedcovers. He observes the way the tendons in Proko's wrist flex as he strokes up and down, the way he crowds in close to Skov as he lines himself up to push in, the way Skov's tattooed thighs are quivering. Proko's saying something into his ear, inaudible to Swan over the sweetly tortured moans tumbling out of Skov, but it's only meant for Skov anyway.

It takes a few rocks of Proko's hips to find a good angle, to find the right rhythm, and Skov curls in on himself with each thrust. He can't bite back his low cries, each one fuel for Swan's fire.

“ _Ow_ , fuck,” Skov pants, scrabbling at the blanket, looking for something to grasp. His cock is hard, leaking; Swan can see its tip flushed red and shining, hanging stiff between his lean-muscled legs. His voice breaks when he speaks again. “Wait, Proko, I can't.”

“Don't mind him,” growls Swan, fixated on the knot of Skov's brow, the white of his knuckles, the tensing and quaking of his stomach. The corners of his eyes glitter with wetness, an involuntary and automatic reaction prompted by the discomfort of Proko's intrusion.

Skov yelps when Proko shoves in to the hilt, hips clapping against his ass with a smack. He sways on his knees and collapses down into the mattress, and Prokopenko follows, dropping onto on elbow, the other arm hooked around Skov's waist to keep his ass up and pressed close against his pelvis. He fucks into Skov with languid thrusts, each movement punctuated by wounded whimpers and the rustle of the sheets, and for a moment those are the only sounds in the room.

“How's it feel, Pro?” Swan can imagine the answer, he's been buried inside of Skov enough times to know. The grip of his fingers circling around the base of his own dick doesn't begin to compare; he zeroes in on Proko's glistening dick where it plunges into Skov and imagines the vice grip of Skov's warmth.

“Fuckin' incredible, man. All tender and open. Like, fuckin'.  _Silky_ .” Proko's voice is husky, words wavering as he in grinds harder. “So good. You like that, huh, Skov? Does it still hurt?”

“Yeah,” Skov breathes, totally wrecked. Precome drips from his cock and onto the comforter, leaving dark wet patches. He isn't jacking himself off anymore, and Swan wonders if it's because he's oversensitive, or if it's taking all of his concentration just to keep himself upright. He clenches his jaw and hides his face in the nearest pillow before letting out a raspy whine that makes Swan's heart stutter. 

“Jesus, you're too fucking hot.” Proko pulls out and sits back on his heels, giving his dick a few sloppy tugs. He grabs at Skov's purpled asscheek and digs his fingertips in, watching it jiggle when Skov shies away. “You gotta get in here, Swan, while you can. Skov's all jumpy, think he's gonna tap out soon.”

Swan curses Proko's bedroom for not being easier to navigate; he clambers around the bed, pants halfway off, and swaps spots with Prokopenko, naturally fitting behind Skov. He spreads a palm over the bruise on his buttock where the skin is radiating, hot with irritation. “You gonna call it quits before I get a taste,  _cariño_ ?” 

“Come on, Swan,” Skov pleads, voice shot. When Swan's knuckles ghost over the fragile skin of his perenium, he recoils. His whole body is trembling; Swan surmises he's been shaking for a while now, it's just easier to tell now that he's up close and personal. It's not often he falls apart before Swan's eyes like this – Swan can't look away.

“Want me to fuck you?” Swan thuds his dick against the meat of Skov's ass and rides the valley between his cheeks, the rolling of his hips coordinated and calculated. He can't help but performing a bit, now that Proko's playing the role of voyeur. As if on cue, Proko lets out an appreciative noise at the same time that Skov does. 

“You're gonna split him in fuckin' half, man,” says Proko, who has moved close enough to Skov to play with his hair. He threads one hand into the powdery blue waves and unhurriedly jerks himself off with the other, gaze ravenous as he watches Swan's fingers sink into Skov before he replaces them with the tip of his dick. 

Carefully but confidently, Swan coaxes Skov open, guiding the thick head of his dick into Skov's sensitive hole with as much self-control as he can muster. Every fiber of his being vibrates with the desire to let go and hammer into Skov without abandon, but the idea of doing real and serious damage helps to keep him reined in. “That's it, babe, relax,” he croons, holding Skov's waist and petting the taut skin with his thumbs. “Shh. Lemme get all the way in.” 

Skov's eyebrows knit together, and when Swan angles in deeper, a reflexive tear spills down his cheek. He nestles his forehead against his shoulder and ducks his head, trying to play it off before anyone sees, but it's too late.

“Oh, fuck, Swan,” Prokopenko says, lustful. “He's fucking  _crying_ .”

“He's okay. He's doing so good.” Swan bends down, breath hot on the back of Skov's neck, ruffling the strands of hair there. He can taste sweat when his lips brush against Skov's nape, a delightful burst of salt on his tongue. He kisses the skin, all tongue and open mouth, then bites it, and whispers, “ _Estás listo, perrito?”_

_Are you ready, puppy_ ? 

“Just fuck me,” Skov begs, surrendering, and Swan waits no further. He edges forward, sliding in the rest of the way until Skov's stretched wide, all lubed-up tight heat, and it's nothing short of glorious. Somewhere in the back of his mind, as he rocks his hips against Skov's ass, Swan thanks Kavinsky for making a mess of his boy the night prior. 

Proko's fingers have tangled into Skov's dark roots, stationary against his scalp as his focus and energy shifts to more selfish territory. His chin falls to his chest and his eyebrows crease as he ruts into his hand, and Swan finds himself subconsciously aligning with the tempo that Proko sets. Drawn-out, desperate strokes, and it's going to be the death of him, and by the sound of it, maybe of Skov, too. 

Skov is a vision to behold, cheekbones shining and pink,  _Skovron_ practice jersey rucked halfway up his clawmarked spine, hips raised just high enough off of the bed that he can fuck into his hand. He's looped on a mantra of  _Swan_ and  _fuck_ and  _please_ up until he comes, hard, humping against the sheets, and the way he flexes and flutters around Swan is divine. Distantly, Swan registers Proko saying  _oh, holy shit_ .

The better part of Swan tells him to ease up, to let Skov recover; the sounds coming from Skov are closer to real sobs than moans now, but he reaches a hand back to touch Swan's leg, and though no words are exchanged, Swan hears it in his head, hears it in Skov's ragged breaths:  _don't stop_ .

Even fucked out of his mind, Skov will always want, always  _give_ , and that fact is enough to ultimately unravel Swan. Pleasure blooms at the base of his skull and he swears, pulling out to stripe Skov's lower back with whatever come doesn't land haphazardly on Proko's sheets. His limbs are numb, heart pounding, and with as much grace as he can manage, Swan drops onto the bed at Skov's side. 

With some effort, he slings an arm around the other boy's shoulders to pull him close. “ _Mi amor_ ,” he murmurs, nuzzling into the slope of muscle between his neck and shoulder. “You're unbelievable.”

“I don't even believe it, and I was here for it,” Proko chimes, getting a small laugh out of Skov.

Swan hugs Skov to his chest. All destructive and primal urges have been replaced with a strong impulse to protect and comfort that only ever washes over Swan after he's pushed Skov to his limits. “You feel alright?”

“Yeah,” Skov replies, “Fucking. Yeah, good. I'm great.” To string words into any kind of coherent sentence can prove to be quite the task in his state; Swan understands. He drops a kiss onto the side of Skov's neck.

“Good,” Swan says. “Sorry if you're sore. I'll lick your wounds later.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, at least I actually used proper capitalization this time. Also, I am my own v sleep-deprived proofreader and am legit just forever throwing everything into the void with hopeless abandon, so I apologize for any errors.


End file.
